


Silvertongue

by Rob_the_Chemist



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt cares about Jaskier, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier was a prostitute, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Torture, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, don't mess with Jaskier or Geralt will fucking kill you, he didn't tell Geralt, it was truamatizing, that was A Bad Idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rob_the_Chemist/pseuds/Rob_the_Chemist
Summary: No, it can’t be. All of the cities look the same, of course they do, and surely he’d have paid enough attention to what Geralt said about this contract to realize if they were going somewhere hereallydoesn’t want to be.“Where did you say we were heading?” he asks finally as Geralt climbs off of Roach and begins untying the saddlebags.“Danighan,” the witcher grunts.Oh, shit,Jaskier thinks.“Oh, good,” he says.In which Jaskier had once been so desperate for coin he'd sold his body, Geralt has taken a contract with a sadistic bastard, and Jaskier is going to do something that Geralt would most definitely not approve of (which, really, never turns out well for anybody).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1973





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so when I was writing this story I imagined the people in Danighan to have Dublin accents, but when I tried to write it that way it looked dumb so I gave up. So if you know what a Dublin accent sounds like try to imagine that when the OCs are talking lol. 
> 
> Also, I wasn't sure about including a relationship between Jaskier and Geralt but decided to go ahead with it at the last minute, so tell me if it seems forced or rushed or anything,
> 
> Cheers!

“Geralt, where...” Jaskier clears his throat, taking in the bustling city before them.  
  
It’s...unnervingly, uncannily familiar, with the inn next to the blacksmith and the apothecary across the busy street. He can see the butcher shop a short ways down the road, and, he thinks, if they turn the corner near the tailor just beyond it they’ll find the brothel, tall and uninviting with chipping red paint and broken blue shutters. His muscles coil, pulling taught as though in preparation for a fight. He feels the nearly overwhelming urge to run.  
  
But—no. No, it can’t be. All of the cities look the same, of course they do, and surely he’d have paid enough attention to what Geralt said about this contract to realize if they were going somewhere he _really_ doesn’t want to be.  
  
“Where did you say we were heading?” he asks finally as Geralt climbs off of Roach and begins untying the saddlebags.  
  
“Danighan,” the witcher grunts.  
  
_Oh, shit,_ Jaskier thinks.  
  
“Oh, good,” he says.  
  
Jaskier stays silent as they make their way to the inn, keeping his head down and trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He tells himself he’s being foolish. Even if people _do_ recognize him they’ll recognize him as Jaskier, the Famous Bard, the Poet of the White Wolf. He thinks bitterly that those who would remember him from _before_ would have escaped this shithole the first chance they got. And anyway, everyone is too preoccupied with the witcher walking broodingly by his side to pay him much mind.  
  
Still, he can’t help but hunch his shoulders in a way that reminds him too much of how he’d held himself the last time he’d walked these streets, over ten years ago. He scowls. He’d _sworn_ he would never set foot in this sorry excuse for a town ever again.  
  
If Geralt notices Jaskier’s strange behaviour he doesn’t mention it, although the bard is sure he can smell his rising anxiety. He shifts nervously as Geralt and the innkeep exchange a few words and then a handful of coin. He can’t keep himself from glancing around to make sure that no one is going to approach him. It’s happens sometimes, anyway, even now that he’s changed his name and his clothes and bought himself a lute. _Didn’t you know? All bards are whores._  
  
The inn is just as dauntingly familiar as the first sight of the city had been. Jaskier remembers vividly evenings spent lounging at the bar, sent out to entice travellers and merchants with his cheeks and lips dusted with rouge and his eyelashes painted with coal-paste, trying to be as sultry as his fifteen-year-old body would allow. _The young ones always bring round new patrons._ It was true—they’d looked at Jaskier with hunger in their eyes and after he’d led them to the brothel once they’d kept coming back, again and again and again.  
  
Jaskier shudders. It feels the same, even though they’ve been here less than an hour. Like he’s running from something and waiting for something all at once, like he’s watching minutes and hours and days of his life tick by that he’ll never, ever get back. Like all the time he’d spent trying to forget this place, making a name for himself and finally _living_ , had never even passed.  
  
This time Geralt does turn to look at him, face expressionless except for the quirk of his brow. Jaskier wonders what he must smell like now. He doesn’t want to explain to Geralt—doesn’t know what he would _say_ —so he sticks his tongue out, expecting the witcher to roll his eyes and let that be the end of it. He doesn’t, though, just lets out an indiscernible hum and studies Jaskier’s face until the bard looks away uncomfortably.  
  
As he turns, his eyes lock with a familiar pair of green ones set in a pale, heart-shaped face framed with soft black waves. His breath catches. He needs to go, needs to get up to their room before she realizes who he is, but he’s rooted to the spot and then she’s making her way toward him and it’s too late.  
  
“Julian?” she breathes as she nears, eyes wide. She glances between him and the witcher.  
  
“Brighid,” he replies woodenly, panic and some emotion he can’t put a name to stealing his words and his manners.  
  
Geralt hums again and, with a nod to Brighid and another glance at Jaskier, disappears up the stairs.  
  
“I can’t believe it,” she murmurs when he’s gone, searching Jaskier’s face as though she’s not sure he’s real. Her Danighan accent sharpens the ends of her words in a way that speaks to a lifetime in the city. Jaskier clenches his teeth against the memories threatening to overwhelm him. “‘Tis been years.”  
  
“It has,” he agrees, and suddenly he’s on edge, afraid that someone else will confront him. “Would it be all right if we went somewhere...a bit more private?” His gaze darts around, but so far no one else has taken any notice.  
  
“Of course, of course.” Brighid shakes her head and blinks as if she’s just remembered where they are. She leads him to a table tucked away behind the stairs.  
  
“Julian—” she starts when they’ve sat down.  
  
“Jaskier, please,” he interrupts, _begs_ , and her eyes widen further.  
  
“Oh!” she exclaims. “ _You’re_ Jaskier? The bard?” Her face lights with excitement at his nod and she takes his hands in her own. “Of course, I should have known, with the White Wolf as a travelling companion. Oh, Julian— _Jaskier_ —that’s wonderful! You always had such talent. I knew you would end up doing something incredible.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek and he feels warmth bloom in his chest despite himself.  
  
“Thank you, Brighid, really. That means a lot to me.” He squeezes her hands in his own, searching her face. “But you’re still here, after all this time? I would have expected you to be long gone by now.”  
  
“As would I,” she murmurs longingly, her green eyes so sad that something deep within Jaskier’s chest _aches_.  
  
He and Brighid had been the youngest of the whores at the brothel. Jaskier had come running, away from his loveless family and the emptiness promised alongside ownership of the Lettenhove estate, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Brighid had been found cowering in an alley by the brothel’s owner, abandoned by her mother and without a single crown to her name. Jaskier had been fourteen, Brighid only a year older.  
  
The owner, a fiery woman with a kind heart named Edana, had taken them in and given them the best she could with what she had. She and the others working there had always cared for them. But no matter how much they’d cared, working in the brothel had been dismal and vile and dangerous, and it had drained the life out of them. _All_ of them.  
  
“Why aren’t you gone, then?” Jaskier asks, suddenly fierce. “Geralt is going to see about a contract tomorrow morning—if you need coin, Brighid—”  
  
“‘Tis not the coin,” Brighid interrupts. “I’ve saved my crowns since I got a job as a serving maid here six months ago—when I met my love and finally escaped that shithole.”  
  
“Then what is it?” Jaskier demands, leaning in. “You can’t possibly _want_ to stay in Danighan.”  
  
“Of course I don’t, it’s just...” she bites her lip. “The newest of Edana’s girls, Arienh. Fourteen, just like you were. Keir’s new favourite.”  
  
Jaskier’s heart skips a beat and he feels the blood drain from his face. Oh, no. Oh, _no_. Not Keir, not another innocent child trapped in that twisted fucker’s clutches. Jaskier’s body aches with the phantom feeling of Keir’s hands on him, harsh and unyielding.  
  
“I was meant to leave two months ago,” she continues, her face anguished and guilty, “but Arienh came a few weeks before I got out and I promised I’d look out for her. I want to take her with me, but I can’t. Moryn owns a tailor shop in Gaslow, and we’ve no place to put her up. I don’t know what to do. I can’t just leave her here.” Tears are welling in Brighid’s eyes.  
  
“We’ll take her.” The words leave the bard’s mouth without him telling his lips to move. He’s nearly as surprised as Brighid looks.  
  
“Take her?” Brighid asks skeptically. “You and your witcher?”  
  
Jaskier grimaces a little at the thought of Geralt trying to interact with a fourteen-year-old girl. Still—Geralt doesn’t sit well with violence against innocent people, especially children. Jaskier knows that there’s a kind heart underneath all that glowering and grunting. He’s seen it. And besides, he’s put up with the bard for nearly eight years. The man truly has the patience of a saint, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.  
  
“Geralt will be fine,” he assures. “They were wanting for a kitchen maid at the inn in a town a few miles back. The innkeep was a kind woman. I’m sure Arienh will be well cared for until she decides to make her own way.”  
  
Brighid sags with relief. “Oh, thank Melitele,” she breathes, closing her eyes. “You should see the bruises, Jaskier. Already.”  
  
The bard grinds his teeth, feeling the first flame of rage ignite in his belly. He wants to make Keir pay for what he’s done, to him and to _all_ the poor kids who had come after him, naive and sanguine as he must have been before he’d been ruined by reality.  
  
“But—Jaskier—” Brighid grips his hands more tightly, her eyes suddenly fearful. “Be _careful_. You know what he’s like. He won’t give her up easily. And if he catches you there—”  
  
“He won’t,” Jaskier interrupts a little wildly, ignoring the thrill of fear he feels at her words. “Don’t worry, Brighid. All will be well.”  
  
“ _Thank you_ , Jaskier,” she says fervently. She leans in to kiss his cheek again. “I’d best get back to work. I’ve been gone too long already.”  
  
She gives his hands another quick squeeze and stands, leaving him with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. What the _fuck_ is he doing? What is he _thinking?_ He can’t stage some sort impromptu prison break for _anyone_ , let alone a traumatized young girl he’s never even met. He’s not well-versed in the art of subtlety or elaborate planning, and besides, his luck is absolute _shit_. Oh, Melitele’s tits. What has he gotten himself into?

He makes his way up the stairs in a daze, belatedly realizing that he doesn’t even know what room they’re staying in. Luckily, Geralt had taken the bard’s inattention into mind and left the door open a crack. He opens it to find the witcher sitting on the bed, drawing a whetstone rhythmically across the blade of one of his swords.

“What have I told you about sharpening things on the bed?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him, the question leaving his mouth without thought. He feels strangely disconnected from his body.

“Hm,” Geralt says without looking up from the weapon. “Friend of yours?” he asks. It takes Jaskier longer than it should to figure out what he’s talking about and Geralt pauses, finally turning his attention to the other man. “Lover?” His eyes are unreadable, but Jaskier can hear the slightest hint of careful possessiveness in his tone

“No! Gods, no,” Jaskier denies too quickly. He and Brighid had been extremely close, but they had never had that sort of intimacy. Too many shared experiences, and anyway— “She’s, ah, not my type.” He can’t help but pass his gaze over the witcher. Geralt knows very well what his type is.

Geralt hums again, studying his face impassively. “If you got yourself into trouble gods know how fucking long ago, bard, and have enemies in this city—”

His anxiety mounts. “No, no trouble, none at all, _enemies_ , certainly not—”

“—you need to tell me so that when it comes back to bite you in the ass I can make sure it doesn’t kill you,” Geralt finishes, glaring now.

Jaskier hesitates, clenching his hands nervously. His trouble with this city isn’t the kind that the witcher is considering. Even so, he wonders if he shouldn’t explain the situation, what he’s planning on doing. He’ll have to tell him _sometime_ —after all, he can hardly smuggle a teenaged girl out of Danighan without Geralt’s notice. But he has a feeling that if he reveals his intentions Geralt will call him an idiot and refuse to take the girl with them. No, better to leave it until he actually has Arienh to use as leverage. The witcher won’t be able to look at a child, battered and hopeful at the chance for freedom, and leave her to suffer.

“I’m offended, dear witcher, that you would think I could have _enemies_ ,” he says finally, pressing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “I am beloved by all who lay eyes on me.”

Geralt snorts, turning back to his sword without another word. Jaskier is cleverer than to think that the other man really believes him. He probably just doesn’t want to put the effort into arguing. It shouldn’t matter, though. Jaskier won’t be in need of saving. He fights off the wave of doubt and the niggle of fear. He can pull this off, damn it, he _can_. He has to.

He doesn’t want to visit the brothel now, not when night is approaching and it will be full of drunkards and rich men alike. There’s too much of a chance that Keir will be there, and besides, it’ll be better to talk to Edana and Arienh during the morning, when customers are scarce. He sits next to Geralt on the bed, putting his feet up and leaning back against the headboard. The witcher doesn’t falter in his sharpening.

“Who is this contract with, again?” Jaskier asks absently. He’s thinking about how strange it will be to return to the brothel. It’s been a long time. He had thought he would be trapped there forever, taking the abuse and endless monotony until he died and rotted in that place. But he had seen the lute in the woodcarver’s shop and saved his coin, hidden it under a floorboard in his room and hoarded it until he’d had enough to buy the instrument, and when that day finally came he’d played and sang at the inn and collected so many crowns that he’d cried to Edana with joy. Finally, _finally_ , he was free.

“Lord Keir,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier nearly chokes on his own spit.

“ _Lord_ Keir?” His heartbeat is thundering in his ears and he feels lightheaded. He wonders half-hysterically who the bastard had had to kill to win that title.

Geralt looks at him sharply. “ _Jaskier_ ,” he growls.

Jaskier recovers himself a little, though his heart is still racing. It doesn’t matter. He’s not involved in the negotiation of the contracts and Keir’s higher status doesn’t make him any more of a threat. At least, he _hopes_ it doesn’t.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says, trying to be reassuring. If Geralt’s glare is anything to go by, he doesn’t succeed. “Truly, there’s no problem. Keir and I won’t be crossing paths.”

Geralt scowls before getting up to put away the sword and whetstone. “Performing tonight?” he asks, pausing at his bag. “No,” Jaskier replies hastily. He can _absolutely_ not draw that much attention to himself. Not here. “An early night, I think.”

Geralt nods, unquestioning. He pulls out a sleep shirt and Jaskier turns away. Now is not the time for his unyielding attraction to the witcher to make itself known, although it would be a welcome distraction from the stress of the circumstances.

As he changes his own clothes, the bard wonders not for the first time where he and Geralt stand in terms of their relationship. They had started sharing a bedroll more often during the winter, Geralt holding him close when the chill had made his teeth chatter and his lips turn blue. Then they just hadn’t stopped, lying together every night and waking with Jaskier curled into Geralt’s chest. They’d stopped asking about separate beds months ago. Jaskier knows that the witcher can scent his lust for him and he’s _sure_ he’s caught the hint of arousal in the other man’s own eyes, but Geralt hasn’t made any indication that he wishes to make anything of it and Jaskier is too afraid of his friend’s rejection to confront him.

Still, as they climb into bed and Geralt makes no objection when the bard plasters himself against his side, just gives a low hum that the bard can feel rumble through his warm chest, Jaskier _wants_. He wants Geralt more fiercely than he’s wanted anything besides that lute, years and years ago. He wants Geralt’s touch and his affection and his _love_ , and he wants to give and give and give himself to the witcher until there’s nothing left.

He sighs softly. Wishful thinking, that’s what it is. But Geralt’s slow breaths and steady heartbeat chase away the panic of today and the days to come and he falls asleep quickly, secure in his witcher’s solid presence, if only for a little while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost exactly the same as he remembers it. They’ve repainted the front hall and replaced the dining table and chairs, twined some sort of ribbon around the rungs of the staircase bannister. But everywhere he looks, Jaskier can see himself in all his lack of dignity, letting strangers do what they please with his body in exchange for a few crowns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: graphic depictions of rape/non-con and underage prostitution

_“Why so quiet?” Keir asks, voice like silk and nightshade as he brushes his thumb gently across Julian’s cheek, smearing the wetness there. Julian is shaking on his knees. His throat feels sore and swollen from where Keir had held him against the wall with his hand around it, his collarbone throbbing from where Keir had sunk his teeth hard into the flesh._

_He keeps his mouth closed and his face as emotionless as he can as he watches Keir unlace his pants. He wants to close his eyes, to get as far away as possible without actually leaving, but he can’t. Keir doesn’t like that._

_“Come on, Silvertongue, spin me a tale,” Keir coos, taking his cock heavy and red into his hand. He gives himself a few strokes, smearing the drip of precum at the tip with the thumb that just caressed Julian. The boy can’t help but shudder. “Sing me a song. I know how hard it is for you to keep that pretty mouth shut.”_

_Julian stares straight ahead, refusing to make a sound as tears stream down his face. Morgan had taught him to always do as his clients ask, but_ this— _he can’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. Keir doesn’t really want to hear him_ sing _._

_Suddenly Keir’s hand is tight around his jaw, jerking his head up in a way that wrenches his sore neck and pulls an unwilling whimper out of him. Keir smirks, eyes burning with satisfaction and arousal at the sound._

_“That’s right, Silvertongue,” he says, voice guttural. “Now open up.”_

_He squeezes harshly, mashing the sensitive insides of Julian’s cheeks against his teeth until he has no choice but to open his mouth. His bruised, cracked lips start to bleed again as Keir rams his cock against the back of his throat, making him gag. He’s helpless to stop the soft litany of cries that escapes him now._

_“Fuck, yes,” Keir grunts. He moves his hand from Julian’s face and yanks on his hair sharply, hitting the back of his throat with every thrust. “What a lovely story, Silvertongue. Tell it again.”_

Jaskier jerks awake, panting. For a terrible moment he’s still Julian Pankratz, disowned from his inheritance and enslaved by the people who use his body as a fuck toy. He’s damp with sweat and chilled, and he can’t keep a soft sob from leaving his mouth.

“Easy,” a low voice murmurs from behind him. A large, warm hand strokes gently down his flank. Jaskier recognizes that voice. He turns over to find Geralt looking at him with warm amber eyes, softened with sleep. He lets them close again as Jaskier takes a deep, shaky breath, tucking his arm around the bard’s waist and pulling him closer.

Through the shutters, Jaskier can just see the light of early dawn creeping over the distant hills. The warmth of Geralt’s body against his own lulls his heartbeat into a steady rhythm once more, but he knows that sleep won’t find him again.

“ _The days are long without you, oh my lovely,_ ” he sings softly, watching the slow rise and fall of Geralt’s chest. “ _And the nights are lonely, oh my love. You haunt me as I wander, oh my darling. I beg you, let me free. Let me free.”_

“Sing something else,” Geralt rumbles quietly. His fingertips brush along Jaskier’s spine. The bard hums in acquiescence. For all Geralt claims witchers don’t feel emotions, Jaskier knows that that song makes him sad. Another song dances around his head, an old lullaby that Edana used to sing to them if they couldn’t sleep.

“ _Lay down your head, and I’ll sing you a lullaby,  
_ _Back to the years of loo-li-lie-lay.  
_ _And I’ll sing you to sleep, and I’ll sing you to morrow.  
_ _Bless you with love for the road that you’ll go._

_May you sail fair to the far fields of fortune,  
_ _With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet.  
_ _And may you need never to banish misfortune.  
_ _May you find kindness in all that you meet.”_

It’s not long before Geralt falls back into a quiet slumber, the lines of his face completely smoothed out in a way they rarely are in wakefulness. Jaskier reaches up and caresses the back of his hand along the witcher’s jaw, just once. He aches to press a kiss to the hollow at the base of the other man’s throat. Geralt’s gentleness with him in these moments makes Jaskier think that maybe, just _maybe_ , his desire for an intimacy between them isn’t so ridiculous. But if it _is_ , if Geralt doesn’t want him like that, pushing him may mean pushing him away forever. He can’t take that chance.

Jaskier watches the sun rise over the valleys, his stomach turning with apprehension despite his security in Geralt’s embrace. The witcher won’t be here for long, after all. Soon he’ll rise and go to bargain with the man Jaskier hates more than he’s ever hated anyone or anything, and then he’ll be away fighting some deadly, malicious creature, perhaps for days. Jaskier will be totally and utterly alone in his endeavors this time.

If things go smoothly, Geralt will never know of the danger that Jaskier is putting himself in by doing this. But things don’t often go the way he intends them and this time the stakes are so high. Even walking into the brothel is a risk with Keir still terrorizing this city—fuck, even _leaving the tavern_ is a risk. He’s not a fool. He knows that Keir won’t hesitate to make good on his promise to keep him as his own personal sex slave if he ever finds him again. The thought makes panic well in his gut and Geralt stirs a little, his brow creasing.

Jaskier forces himself to relax. He can’t keep dwelling on worst-case-scenario. It’s not helpful or productive, and he _needs_ to do this. He prays to Melitele that his luck will hold out, just for a few days. He’ll pop down to the brothel and speak with Edana and Arienh while Geralt is negotiating with Keir, and then once the witcher has gone to carry out the hunt Jaskier will bring Arienh back to the inn to await his return.

Geralt stirs again as sunlight spills into the room, taking a long, slow breath. “I can hear you thinking,” he mutters, eyes still closed.

Jaskier chuckles. “I’m sure the people across the hall can hear me thinking,” he says. He shifts away, worried that Geralt will smell his fear and do something stupid like cancel the contract or, gods forbid, make him _talk._

“I know you’re hiding something from me, bard,” Geralt accuses mildly as Jaskier laces up his pants and pulls his tunic over his head. The bard hears the witcher get up from the bed and then the soft rustle of the other man’s own clothes.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Jaskier lies, trying to keep his emotions out of his tone. It only serves to make his voice flat and apathetic, too unlike him to be anything close to reassuring.

Sure enough, when he turns to face Geralt he’s met with the man’s scrutinizing eyes and his mouth slightly twisted in the way Jaskier has come to recognize as meaning he’s second-guessing something.

“Oh, no. No, no.” Jaskier shakes his head, glaring. “Don’t look at me like that, witcher—you are _not_ going to lose this contract because of me. There is _nothing_ to worry about.”

“There’s always something to worry about,” Geralt grumbles.

He advances until he’s close enough that Jaskier can feel the heat radiating from his body. Leaning down slightly, he pins the bard with the intensity of his gaze. “If you can promise me that I will come back from this hunt to find you whole and unharmed as I have left you,” he says lowly, “I won’t drop the contract.”

Jaskier swallows hard, a light sweat breaking out across his forehead. How is he supposed to promise that? He’s a rubbish liar at the best of times, and with Geralt so close, his whole body posed like a challenge, Jaskier will he surprised if he can speak at all.

The fact of the matter is that it’s not a promise he can make. He’s not sure it’s a promise he could _ever_ make. He’s too much of a magnet for trouble— _oh_.

“I could never promise you that,” he blurts, taking a half-step back. “You know me, Geralt. When have I _ever_ managed to keep myself out of trouble while you were away?” It’s an evasion, but it’s the best he can do.

“Hm.” Geralt holds his gaze for a moment longer and the bard begins to shift nervously, afraid that it hasn’t worked. But then the witcher turns away, pulling on his leather armour and securing his swords around his waist. “I’ll be back before sundown.” The door clicks shut behind him.

Jaskier sags against the wall with relief. Curse Geralt’s perceptiveness and his fucking razor-sharp senses. It makes it hard for Jaskier to do things he’s not supposed to.

With a deep breath, he pockets his key and ties his coin purse securely to his waistband. He leaves the rest of his things shut tight in the room. He won’t be needing them, and if you don’t keep a close watch on your belongings in the brothel you may just as well find yourself wanting for a few.

Again, he can’t keep from curling in on himself as he leaves the inn and starts down the road. The memory of walking this path as a boy burns in his mind. Strangers’ hands on his ass or, if a drunkard was feeling particularly ballsy, on his cock. Jeers and catcalls. Sometimes he would be pulled down a back street to suck some bastard’s dick. Occasionally he would be fucked against the alley wall, quick and dirty. He’d cried the first time that had happened, feeling ashamed. Filthy. But he’d learned quickly that there was no dignity in whoring.

For a minute he can’t make himself go in, once he finds himself too soon in front of the brothel’s entrance. He’s got that wild feeling in his chest again, the one that forced him out of Danighan all those years ago, made him run and keep running. It feels absurdly as though if he walks through that door he’ll be trapped there forever. He shakes himself a bit. That won’t happen. It _won’t_. Taking a fortifying breath, he goes in.

It’s almost exactly the same as he remembers it. They’ve repainted the front hall and replaced the dining table and chairs, twined some sort of ribbon around the rungs of the staircase bannister. But everywhere he looks, Jaskier can see himself in all his lack of dignity, letting strangers do what they please with his body in exchange for a few crowns. Bent over the dining table, his trousers halfway down his thighs as some drunken brute pounds him into the hard edge while his friends whistle and shout. On his knees two steps up the stairway, stark naked, letting a boy barely older than himself come down his throat. A middle-aged woman had once had him fuck her on the floor in the entryway, just where he’s standing.

He swallows against his dry throat, muscles so taught he’s afraid they might snap. _Run_ , his brain tells him urgently. _Run, you idiot,_ run!

He’s half-turned back toward the door, just about to listen to that inner voice of his, when he hears a familiar call.

“Is it really you, Dandelion?”

Only one person has ever called him Dandelion. He moves to face Edana, and he’s surprised by the surge of emotion he feels when their eyes meet again for the first time in over a decade.

“Edana,” he breathes. He stumbles toward her, bringing her into a fierce hug. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as they embrace. This woman had shown more love and care for him in the two years he had worked here than his mother had shown him his whole life.

He studies her as he pulls away. She’s as beautiful as ever, although her vibrant red hair is now streaked with white and laugh lines soften the skin around her eyes. She reaches up to put a hand against his cheek.

“I am so, so happy for you, my Dandelion,” she says, her smile warm and gentle. “You’ve made it so far.”

He grasps the hand on his face, holding it there. “Thank you, Edana. For everything.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to thank her enough for all that she’d done for him.

“Oh, come now,” she teases, her grin playful now. “I know you didn’t travel all this way to kiss up to me.”

Jaskier laughs, but the thought of what he _did_ come here for quickly sobers him. “You’re right,” he says, “although I wish that was the case. Brighid—she told me…” he trails off, unsure of how to present his proposal.

“Ah,” Edana says, understanding colouring her tone. Her eyes grow sad. “You’re here to see about Arienh.”

“Geralt and I—that is, me and the witcher I’m travelling with—we can take her somewhere else, somewhere far away. We’ll find her a job and she’ll have a chance, a _real_ chance, to live and be _happy_.”

“Nothing would bring me more joy than to see Arienh gone from this hell pit,” Edana says. She scowls. “But Keir won’t give her up so easily as he did you. I’m afraid he’d hunt her, and he’d find her.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “We’ve been everywhere, Edana, we _go_ everywhere. Even Keir will only travel so far to win a prize.”

Edana steps forward and grasps his hand, squeezing hard. “Then take her,” she agrees fiercely. “Take her, and I’ll be happy to never see her in this fucking slum of a city ever again.”

Jaskier lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Would you care to introduce me?”

Edana leads him up the stairs and down the hall. His heart beats faster as they get closer and closer to his old room, and he has to take a moment to steel himself when they stop in front of the door. “Are you sure you want to go in here?” Edana asks, concern written all over her face. “I can ask Arienh to come to the dining room.”

The bard just shakes his head, forcing himself to shove his memories deep inside himself. He needs to focus. Edana studies him for a second more before sighing softly and giving a gentle knock on the door.

It opens almost immediately, and Jaskier is met with the sight of a petite girl with cool gray eyes and deep brown hair tied back into two half-plaits. Her cheeks are fair and dusted with freckles.

 _Melitele, she looks so_ young _,_ Jaskier thinks, momentarily stunned. And she _is_ , just a teenager, barely out of girlhood. A child, really. He wonders if he had looked so innocent at that age.

“Yes?” she asks, voice high and sweet. She steps back to let them in the room.

“I’d like you to meet someone very dear to me, darling,” Edana says. “This is Julian.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Arienh turns to Jaskier, but he’s too busy staring at the dark ring of bruises around her pale throat to register that she’s talking to him.

He feels sick. It’s worse than he could have ever imagined, seeing the evidence of Keir’s abuse on this gentle young thing. A quick glance at her wrists reveals a similar pattern of bruises circling them. He imagines that if she were to take off her bodice and pull down her chemise he’d find bite marks on her shoulders and, further down, on her breasts.

“Are you all right, Dandelion?” Edana’s worried voice brings him back to himself, and he returns to the present just in time to see Arienh’s eyes light with wonder.

“You’re Dandelion?” she asks excitedly. She makes a move as if to take Jaskier’s hand, but pulls back at the last second. “Edana says you have a voice like a siren and magic in your fingertips.”

Jaskier laughs a little brokenly. The childish joy in her voice makes his chest ache just as fiercely as Brighid’s quiet longing had. He reaches out and grasps her small hand in his own, leaning down to give it a gentle kiss.

“The pleasure is all mine, sweet girl,” he says warmly, releasing her hand. “And yes, I am known by the lady of the house as Dandelion—but you can call me Jaskier.”

“Jaskier has come to take you away from here,” Edana tells Arienh, using the new name without hesitation. “He’s come to give you a better life.”

Arienh’s eyes widen with so much hope and awe that Jaskier has to look away. He hears the girl step toward Edana.

“But—what about you?” she asks timidly.

“What about me?” Edana asks.

“Won’t you be lonesome?” Arienh asks. Then, with more hesitation: “Won’t you…miss me?”

“Oh, child.” Jaskier turns to see Edana pull Arienh against her just as fiercely as she had held him. “Of course I’ll miss you. But don’t you _dare_ worry about me. I’ll have Saoirse and Kait and Dunham for company. _You_ need to make your own way, _without_ the terrors of this city hanging over you.”

Arienh turns her wide eyes to Jaskier. “Are you going to take me out of Danighan?”

He kneels in front of her, taking her hands into his own and holding her gaze.

“You can be sure of it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jaskier,” he says, holding up a hand when the other man starts to protest. “I need you to promise me that you’re going to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.” He glowers. “No dodging this time, bard.”
> 
> Jaskier bites his lip. He _needs_ Geralt gone, and after last night he doesn’t doubt that if the witcher thinks he’s going to put himself in danger he won’t leave. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders—and he _lies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get this story out as fast as possible but it just keeps getting longer and longer. The plot is getting away from me lol. I'm keeping it at four chapters for now but there may well be a fifth.
> 
> Also: I have never, in all my years of writing fanfiction, written smut or any kind of sex scene. Hell, I don't think I've ever even written a real relationship. So I apologize if the scenes between Geralt and Jaskier seem awkward and unrealistic. I've tried my best.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> P.S. I think Geralt is probably a little out of character (and will continue to be for the rest of the story) but that's okay because I like him that way.
> 
> WARNING: graphic depictions of sex

Jaskier tells Edana and Arienh that he’ll be back likely the next morning to collect the girl, after Geralt has gone. Arienh had insisted that she doesn’t need a room for herself (“I _hate_ waking on my own.”) and the bard thinks it’s just as well. He doesn’t know how long Geralt will be away and he doesn’t need the witcher growling about wasting coin while he’s trying to convince him to take a third into their little party for a while.

As he makes his way back to the inn, as quickly and inconspicuously as he can, he considers the fact that they’re going to need to take Arienh farther away from Danighan than he had originally planned. This doesn’t bode well for his chances of winning Geralt’s cooperation. If the circumstances were less dire he’d just take her on his own—he’s willing to walk if it means ensuring her safety, and he knows first-hand that the whores in Edana’s brothel have good, steady endurance and strength.

But the situation _is_ dire, and he’s afraid in actuality it will have to be _Geralt_ who takes Arienh on his own. If what Edana said about Keir hunting the girl is true—and he has every reason to believe that it is—then they’ll need Roach’s speed to get her far enough away from Danighan that by the time Keir has realized what’s happened he’ll be too far behind to find her.

He sighs in frustration. This is turning out to be even more convoluted than he had expected, and that’s saying something. His luck has held so far but he’s loathe to push it, and he’s going to need all the luck he can get to convince the witcher to go through with this.

Although—he’s never met a sweeter girl than Arienh, and even Geralt isn’t immune to the innocent charm of a child.

(He would never admit this, but Jaskier had once caught him letting two young sisters braid his hair while he told their brother the tale—rather milder than the way it had _actually_ gone—of defeating the werewolf that had been killing cattle in that cottar’s village. When Jaskier had teased him about it later he had just scowled, and now if the bard brings it up he denies it ever happening, claiming that all children are afraid of him.)

And anyway, those bruises hadn’t been subtle, and Jaskier has the sinking suspicion that there will be more to come tonight. Geralt’s righteous anger at the harsh treatment will probably rival Jaskier’s own.

He slips up to their room, letting out a breath of relief when the door is shut and locked tight behind him. His shoulders are stiff with tension. He thinks miserably that this will be the thing to finally undo him.

It’s only midday, but he doesn’t dare leave the tavern again. The streets are busy with people visiting merchants’ stalls and chatting idly and he can’t chance running into someone who might know him, even if Keir is busy at his estate negotiating with Geralt. He hears the belting tones of a street performer singing a rather filthy version of ‘I’ll Tell me Ma’ and feels a pang of jealousy. There’ll be no performances for him, not while he’s trapped in Danighan. _How tragic,_ he thinks as he settles onto the bed with his lute and plucks sulkily at the strings. _Hidden away and stripped of my livelihood_.

By the time Geralt returns he’s composed two new ballads: a slow, mournful one about wanting to escape a tragic past and a fast-paced ditty about an unlikely hero who saves a young girl from the clutches of an evil monster. He cuts himself off as the witcher opens the door, clutching his lute to his chest guiltily. He can’t have Geralt hearing his songs and guessing his scheme—because that’s just the sort of thing he _would_ do—but it feels wrong to be depriving his friend of his extraordinary musical talent. It makes his heart ache. Geralt raises an eyebrow as he takes off his sword belt and begins to unlace his armour, watching the bard hurry over and put his instrument back next his pack.

“You aren’t going to forcefully serenade me with your newest masterpieces?” the witcher asks skeptically.

“They’re not finished,” Jaskier says too quickly, straightening and turning to look at Geralt with wide eyes. Damn it, he needs to stop acting so _suspicious_.

“Hm.” Geralt crosses his arms, watching the bard fidget with an unfathomable expression. “Busy day?” he asks slowly, advancing on the other man for the second time that day. Jaskier takes a step back before he realizes his mistake; now he’s trapped against the wall with nowhere to run.

“Not—not really,” he practically squeaks, voice coming out airy and too high. Geralt hums again. He crowds into Jaskier’s space and brackets his arms against the wall on either side of the bard’s head, leaning down until his nose is pressed against the underside of Jaskier’s jaw and inhaling deeply. Jaskier can’t keep from tilting his head back, blood pounding in his ears.

“You’ve been in the brothel,” Geralt accuses so lowly his voice is almost a growl. All the blood that was just in the bard’s head rushes straight to his cock, making him dizzy. He has to bite down hard on the inside of his lip to hold in a whimper.

“It’s not what you think,” he says breathlessly, trying to keep the _want_ out of his voice. He thinks vaguely that he shouldn’t have said that—how is he supposed to explain?

“What is it, then?” Jaskier swears he hears more of that not-so-careful possessiveness in the witcher’s own tone and he shifts uncomfortably as he grows impossibly harder, dick straining in his pants. But no, no it can’t be. He’s only hearing what he _wants_ to hear, mistaking Geralt’s irritation for something that’s not there—

“ _Oh!_ ”

There’s no mistaking the knee that the witcher shoves between Jaskier’s thighs, pressing directly against his swollen cock. Jaskier rocks against it helplessly. He’s suddenly too hot, skin burning underneath his tunic.

“ _I know you’re hiding something from me_ ,” Geralt rumbles against his throat, repeating his earlier statement. He pins Jaskier’s hips against the wall with his own, grinding against him. The bard is shocked to find that the witcher is just as hard as he is.

Jaskier moans. “This is a rather… _drastic_ change of pace,” he pants, kicking himself as soon as the words leave his lips. _Idiot! Remember what they say about horses and their mouths!_

Geralt hums before bringing his head up and gazing intensely into the bard’s eyes, his own amber ones positively _smouldering_. “I was trying to take it slow,” he murmurs. “But slow isn’t my strong suit. And besides,” he rocks into Jaskier, drawing another whimper from the bard, “seems as though if I wait much longer I’ll lose you to this city.”

Jaskier is reeling. Trying to take it _slow?_ Trying to take _what_ slow? Lose him to _Danighan?_ He opens his mouth to ask Geralt just what the _fuck_ he’s on about but he’s cut off by the witcher pressing his lips against his own, warm and rough.

A strangled sound leaves Jaskier’s throat. His hands come up to tangle in Geralt’s hair almost of their own accord; Geralt grunts as the bard tugs _hard_ , hips stuttering sharply. He brings his own hands around to grip Jaskier’s ass, holding the bard tight and rutting against him, their cocks sliding heavy and hot beside each other. Jaskier moans into Geralt’s mouth, letting the witcher slip his tongue past his parted lips.

It’s too much. Geralt’s mouth on his own, the press of their tongues together. The witcher’s fingertips digging into his flesh as they rock into each other. He comes with an embarrassingly high-pitched whimper, his dick twitching as warm wetness seeps through the fabric of his trousers. Geralt comes not long after, grunting, hips stuttering.

For a second they stay like that, breathing hard with Geralt pinning Jaskier to the wall. The whole thing only lasted a few minutes, and Jaskier feels his cheeks heat as the reality of the situation washes over him. He hasn’t come so fast since before he started working in the brothel at fourteen.

Geralt peels himself off of the bard and turns away. “I’ll send for a bath,” he says gruffly. If Jaskier didn’t know any better he’d say that the witcher was embarrassed too.

They don’t look at each other as they wait for the maid to draw the hot water, but when she leaves and they peel off their soiled pants Jaskier can’t help but start to snicker at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Once he starts laughing, he can’t stop. Soon enough he’s doubled over, tears streaming down his cheeks and his breath coming in gasps. He hears Geralt give a quiet chuckle and then feels the witcher’s hand brush against his shoulders.

“All right, bard—into the tub.”

Later, when they’re both clean and warm against each other under the blankets, Geralt’s arm curled around Jaskier’s chest, Jaskier can’t help but ask, even though he’s afraid he’s pushing this unusual lucky streak of his toward the breaking point.

“Do you mean to tell me that the way you lie with me, the way I see you look at me, the way you speak to me sometimes—all this time, it’s been because you have _feelings for me?_ ”

Geralt shifts a bit, his quiet hum slightly uncomfortable. “I do… _feel_ …when I’m with you,” he mumbles, his earlier confidence faded. Jaskier’s chest warms and he has to hold his breath for a second to keep from giggling like a young girl with her first love. It still feels like he’s dreaming. Once he has himself under control, he continues.

“And what was all that about taking it _slow?_ Losing me to the city?”

Geralt squirms again. “I was, ah…trying to…court you. I thought it would…mean more to you that way. But when I smelled the brothel on you, I…” he trails off.

This time the bard can’t keep a soft, giddy laugh from escaping him. “You, my dear witcher, have a very unique method of courtship. And I give you my _deepest_ assurances that you will _never_ lose me to _Danighan_ , of all places.” He pauses, but then decides that giving Geralt a half-truth will do more to mollify the witcher. “I was in the brothel to visit an old and very dear friend of mine. Nothing more. I promise you.”

Geralt’s hum is contented this time and he pulls Jaskier so that his back is pressed more firmly to the witcher’s chest. “Sing me that song again,” he murmurs. “The lullaby.”

Jaskier smiles softly.

“I should be back within two days,” Geralt grunts the next morning as Jaskier helps him saddle Roach, slipping her an apple when he thinks the witcher isn’t looking. She noses at his waist, looking for more and huffing when she finds none. The bard strokes her nose and chuckles softly.

He watches Geralt mount with rising anxiety. Geralt looks down at him, brow furrowed as he senses the bard’s uneasiness. He sighs, closing his eyes briefly.

“Jaskier,” he says, holding up a hand when the other man starts to protest. “I need you to promise me that you’re going to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.” He glowers. “No dodging this time, bard.”

Jaskier bites his lip. He _needs_ Geralt gone, and after last night he doesn’t doubt that if the witcher thinks he’s going to put himself in danger he won’t leave. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders—and he _lies_.

“Stop _worrying_ , Geralt,” he says exasperatedly. “I’ll be _fine_.”

“Hm.” Geralt searches his face for a minute more, then he clicks his tongue and he and Roach are gone.

As soon as he’s sure Geralt isn’t going to change his mind and lock him in their room (“For your own good,” he imagines Geralt muttering), he starts toward the brothel, almost running by the time the building comes into view. He bursts breathlessly through the door, interrupting a conversation between Edana and a black-haired girl about his age. They both turn to stare at him, and then Edana shakes her head.

“Are you daft, boy?” she snaps in a tone that makes him feel all of fifteen, glaring. “What are you thinking to do, running about like a madman? You’ll have the whole city gossiping.” Jaskier blushes and rubs the back of his neck, giving the older woman a sheepish smile. His heart is still racing, making him feel cagey and strung-out. She sighs. “Well, for all your strengths, subtlety wasn’t one of them,” she mutters. She turns to the younger woman beside her. “Thank you, Kait. I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”

Kait gives a nod and a smile and disappears around the corner of the dining room.

“We’re going to tell Keir that Arienh is ill,” Edana explains as they make their way up the stairs. “Kait will take Keir’s requests until he figures out what’s gone on. We can give you five days, a week at the most. Keir’s not bright by any means, but he gets impatient and I wouldn’t put it past him to demand to see Arienh anyway, sickness be damned.”

Jaskier nods. “Geralt should be back no later than the day after tomorrow. We’ll be long gone by the time Keir figures out anything is wrong.”

Arienh is waiting on the bed when they open the door. She hurls herself at Jaskier, nearly bowling him over with the force of her hug. He laughs, holding her tight.

“Thank you so much, Dandelion,” she breathes. He softens even more, pressing a kiss into her dark hair.

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of leaving you here,” he says firmly. He grasps her biceps gently and pulls her away. “Get your things, darling, and wait for me in the hall.”

She nods and flits out of the room with her bag in her hand, pausing at the door to give Edana a hug and a peck on the cheek. He expects that they’d said their goodbyes before he’d come.

He turns to Edana when she’s gone. “Edana, I can’t thank you enough—”

“ _I_ should be the one thanking _you_ ,” she interrupts. “You’re saving that child’s life, Dandelion.”

“I hope so,” he murmurs. “Will Keir give you a hard time once he figures out what’s happened?”

“Don’t worry about that.” Edana steps forward and kisses his cheek gently. “We’ll tell him she snuck out without our notice. Just _take of her,_ Jaskier. _Please_.”

“You have my word,” he promises. He grips her hand tightly one last time before he goes, sadness creeping over him with the knowledge that this will truly be the last time he sees her.

He keeps Arienh close as they hurry back to the inn, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be watching them. No one pays attention to them, though, too busy with their own lives to take any notice of an oddly dressed man herding a bruised teenage girl down the street.

“Is this where Brighid works?” Arienh asks as they near the tavern.

“It is indeed.”

“Can I see her?” she asks excitedly, turning wide blue eyes to the bard. “Please, Dandelion?”

He’s hesitant to keep her in the open any longer then necessary, but it’s the nickname that does him in. He sighs. “All right,” he agrees, “but only for a few minutes.”

She beams and skips through the door with Jaskier close behind her. He shakes his head in wonder, unsure of whether she’s just excited to be getting the hell out of dodge or such an inherently cheerful person that the months she’s worked in the brothel haven’t yet broken her spirit. He hopes it’s the latter.

“Oh my, love, look at you!” Brighid hugs Arienh tightly and then moves back to examine her, smoothing the hair away from her face and fretting over the bruises on her neck. “What has that monster done to you? You’re going to be so _happy_ once you get out of here. Jaskier is going to take good care of you.” She pulls her back into another hug, catching Jaskier’s eye and mouthing the words _thank you_. He dips his head, smiling a little sadly.

“Go on, now, darling,” Brighid tells Arienh. She gives her a little push toward the bard and turns away, but not before Jaskier sees the tears shining in her eyes. His heart aches for her once again, but he’s secure in his knowledge that she’ll be all right. Now she can leave Danighan behind forever and be happy with her love in Gaslow.

Jaskier guides Arienh to their room with a hand between her shoulder blades. “Here we are,” he says, ushering her through the door. He feels almost weak with relief as the lock turns, tension he didn’t even know he was holding seeping out of his body. He can’t _believe_ that he’s actually managed to pull this off. Arienh looks at him curiously from across the room. He gives her a tired smile.

“You must be my good luck charm,” he tells her, and she laughs. His heart lightens with the sound.

“How would you like to hear a few ballads?” he asks, starting toward his lute.

“Yes!” she says excitedly, and the bard’s smile widens. Seems as though he’ll have a willing audience after all.

The only thing left to do now is to wait for Geralt’s return and then convince him to take Arienh and run.

Jaskier’s not worried about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, love, that’s yours,” he says firmly. “We can’t leave you on your own with no coin no matter what sort of job we find for you. It’s not a good idea.” He moves to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t you worry, darling, I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just stay put.”
> 
> She worries her lip between her teeth as she watches Jaskier leave the room, and as soon as he’s shut the door he’s struck with such an ominous sense of foreboding that he nearly turns to go right back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super happy with this chapter, but I've never been very good at moving a plot along without rushing it. That's why I generally only write plotless whump lmao. Anyway, I hope you enjoy even though it's not my best work. The next chapter should have enough angst and fluff to fill a good few pages. Cheers!

The rest of the day is spent merrily. Jaskier performs his newest songs for Arienh and she gives him advice, proving to be quite apt in the art of lyricality. She tells him stories of her time in the brothel, most of them sad, her voice tinged bittersweet in a way that speaks of maturity well past her fourteen years. They play games with the deck of cards from Arienh’s bag and Jaskier even teaches her a few chords on his lute.

He sends for a meal to be brought to the room near sundown. Arienh eats slowly, and by the time she finishes her stew she’s struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Ready for bed, are we?” he teases gently, colleting her empty dishes to set outside the door. She smiles a little bashfully and nods.

“I suppose it’s been a rather eventful day,” she says, stifling a yawn.

“Of course, darling. I’ll step out so that you can change and then you can settle into the bed.”

“Where will you sleep?” she asks as she gathers a nightdress from her bag, peering at Jaskier with anxious gray eyes. He thinks she may be nervous that he’s going to leave her here alone.

“I’ll be just there, by the fire,” he assures, nodding to the spot in front of the hearth where he’s planning to set up his bedroll. “Don’t worry, Arienh. I’ll stay with you. You’ll be safe.”

She murmurs a quiet thank you and begins to undress, and Jaskier turns away hastily, slipping out the door. He was right: there are more bruises today, red bite marks across her collarbones and a smattering of blue-purple high over her left cheek. He grinds his teeth in anger. He has half a mind to march down to _Lord Keir’s_ estate and cut the bastard’s dick off, but he takes a deep breath as he sets the dishes down and exercises all of his self-control. It won’t do to get himself caught by the very man he’s taken such pains to avoid in a moment of hotheaded impulsivity.

He reenters at Arienh’s muffled, “Come in!” and arranges his bedroll as the girl settles underneath the covers. She’s fast asleep within minutes. Jaskier chuckles softly as he lies down, but he’s afraid it won’t last. He remembers the night terrors that came—that _still_ come—with his dealings with Keir.

Sure enough, it seems as though Jaskier’s just fallen into a deep slumber when he’s awoken by Arienh’s soft cry from the bed. He gets up and settles himself by her side, stroking her hair and murmuring quietly. She stills, her breaths evening out again as she turns into him. Softly, he begins to sing Edana’s lullaby.

The rest of the night passes calmly and so does the next day, with Jaskier having food delivered directly to their room to avoid unnecessary social interaction (something the bard had truly thought was an impossibility—he _adores_ social interaction) and Arienh keeping him entertained with her games and idle chatter. But as the hours tick by, Jaskier can feel that tension creeping back into his muscles and he soon finds himself pacing, watching the sun set over the hills and wondering where the fuck Geralt is.

He tries to reason with himself as Arienh watches him fidget anxiously from the bed. Within two days, Geralt had said. He’s still well within his timeframe and should be back by tomorrow. There’s nothing to worry about. He needs to _relax_.

Just as he’s about to suggest a game of Knaves to take his mind off of things, a knock comes at the door.

“Mr Gallahan says you owe him another day’s coin if you’re going to stay here.” It’s the voice of the maid who brings them their meals. Ingrid, he thinks her name is. She sounds vaguely apologetic.

“Fuck,” Jaskier swears, picking up his coin purse and examining the contents. He has enough crowns for one more night in the room and another day’s worth of food. Worry squeezes in his chest. “I’ll be down with the payment in a minute,” he calls and hears Ingrid’s footsteps echo down the hall.

“I have coin,” Arienh says, cutting Jaskier off as he opens his mouth to speak. She flits to her bag, pulling out a small drawstring satchel and offering it to the bard, her delicate features drawn nervously. Despite the situation, the gesture makes Jaskier smile.

“No, love, that’s yours,” he says firmly. “We can’t leave you on your own with no coin no matter what sort of job we find for you. It’s not a good idea.” He moves to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Don’t you worry, darling, I’ll be back in a jiffy. Just stay put.”

She worries her lip between her teeth as she watches Jaskier leave the room, and as soon as he’s shut the door he’s struck with such an ominous sense of foreboding that he nearly turns to go right back inside. He shakes himself, taking a breath and closing his eyes briefly. _Nothing_ will go well if they get kicked out of the inn.

Still, he can’t help the way his leg bounces nervously all through the transaction, short though it is. He shoots worried glances toward the stairs, making the innkeep stare at him suspiciously and nearly dropping the handful of crowns all over the floor. He’s gone as soon as it’s over, taking the stairs two at a time. His heartbeat roars in his ears as he turns down the hall and sees their door open, dread washing over him like icy water.

“Arienh!” he shouts, slamming into the room. She’s nowhere to be found. “No, no, no.” He turns frantically, searching with wild eyes for the girl that’s obviously not there. “ _No!_ ” He kicks the bedpost with a frustrated yell.

He should have known, damn it, he should have _known_ things were going too well. He never gets this lucky, _never_. He should have _fucking known_.

He’s seething as he leaves the room and barrels back down the stairs, so angry with himself that it burns like acid in his veins. He knows he’s making a scene but he doesn’t care. He has to find Arienh—she can’t be far, he was gone for all of ten minutes—

He turns the corner off of the landing and smacks straight into a solid chest, the impact knocking him back flat on his ass. He apologizes vaguely, not paying attention, eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of his young charge as he struggles to his feet.

“Well, well, well. Careless as ever, Silvertongue,” a familiar voice tuts silkily. Jaskier stops dead, breath catching in his throat.

 _No_. Not him. Please, gods, not _him_.

“The years have been kind to you, boy,” Keir murmurs as he crowds into Jaskier’s view, his eyes moving over the bard in a way that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Pity the same can’t be said for you,” Jaskier says numbly, the words coming out of their own accord. His hands are shaking and his knees feel weak. He tries to remind himself that he’s not a boy anymore. He’s not Julian Pankratz, wanting for food and shelter and at the mercy of sadistic bastards like the one now standing in front of him. He’s _Jaskier_ , damn it all, the White Wolf’s Bard. He’s seen and done things Keir couldn’t even _dream_ of. He brings his chin up defiantly despite his racing heartbeat.

Something dark and hungry passes through Keir’s eyes. He smirks. “Oh, I did _so_ miss your fire,” he sighs. He steps closer and runs a finger down Jaskier’s cheek. Suddenly frozen, the bard can’t make himself move away. He can barely breathe. The meagre confidence he’d gained from his impromptu self-pep-talk flees the second Keir’s skin touches his own.

 _No!_ he thinks. _Pull yourself together, damn you! Now’s not the time for cowardice!_

“What have you done with Arienh?” he forces out, because he _knows_ that the bastard has done _something_ with her.

“Ah, the little sparrow,” Keir says. He smiles smugly. “A doll, that one—precious. The blood pools so beautifully beneath that pale skin of hers.”

The heat of fury begins to unfreeze Jaskier’s muscles as red clouds his vision. Distantly, he notes that they’re still in the inn. Keir can’t just drag him out of here—but by the same token he can’t jump the bastard and beat him senseless.

“ _What have you done with her_ ,” he growls, hands curling into fists. He aches to punch Keir right in his smug mouth.

“She’s not nearly as fun to play with as you were, though.” Keir continues as though Jaskier hadn’t spoken, circling the bard like a predator taunting their prey. Jaskier tries to swallow the terror rising in his throat. “Too… _obedient_. None of your spirit. Your _passion_.” The older man licks his lips, stopping in front of the bard and raking his eyes over him once again.

“Where…where is she?” he asks a little breathlessly, panic once again stealing his voice. Even after all these years, nothing frightens him more than the way Keir looks at him—like he wants to tear him apart and eat the pieces.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be safe and sound at my estate within the hour,” Keir says. He grips Jaskier’s shoulder, and the bard shrinks away. “And safe she will stay— _if_ , that is, you’d care to make a deal.”

Jaskier blinks. It’s not exactly what he had been expecting, although now that he thinks it over it should have been. Of course, it makes perfect sense: Keir is going to use Arienh’s safety as leverage to get Jaskier to agree to be his own personal fuck toy. The man is nothing if not predictable.

“Fine,” Jaskier blurts, cutting the lord off just as he’s about to make his proposal.

“ _What?_ ” Keir asks in disbelief. Anger flares in his muddy brown eyes. He’d never liked interruptions.

“The sex thing, whatever torture you’re planning.” He knows his impatience is bleeding through his tone despite his fear. “Yes, yes, fine, I’ll do it—I’ll do anything _. Just let the girl go_.”

A muscle twitches in Keir’s jaw. The man glares at him, and Jaskier remembers belatedly that he’d always hated having his games spoiled for him even more than he’d hated being spoken over.

 _Fucking serves you right, you sick cunt,_ the bard thinks venomously. His anger is quickly overcoming his fear once again.

He’s surprised by how easily he’s accepted his fate. Now that he knows exactly what Keir wants, he feels almost _relieved_. Arienh will be safe. With Jaskier to keep him occupied, the lord will no longer target the girl. The feeling of resignation is familiar—he’s submitted to this man’s cruelty time and time again, and today will be no different. At least now it’s not in vain. His body in exchange for an innocent child’s rather than a few worthless crowns. For once in his life, he’s doing something truly and purely _good_.

It’s with this in mind that he lets Keir lead him out of the building, and it’s with this in mind that he sees Brighid’s terrified, tearful eyes as they pass and just shakes his head. He needs to do this. He’d promised to protect Arienh, and if that means giving up his freedom and his dignity and his virtue—and more than likely a good bit of his blood—then so be it.

“Good to know you’re still the same slimy, cowardly piece of shit you’ve always been, Keir,” Jaskier sneers as they make their way to the edge of the city. Adrenaline loosens his tongue and makes him brash. “It’s just like you to make threats against a child to get what you want. Tell me, when you murdered the previous lord of this estate of yours, did you try to take his wife, too? And she must have run screaming, didn’t she, because no one would lie with you _willingly_ , that’s why you’ve only ever fucked whores. Not that you could ever please a woman anyway, I seem to remember your cock being rather smaller than average—”

“And _I_ seem to remember your voice being rather less _annoying_ ,” Keir snaps. He pushes Jaskier ahead of himself with a sharp shove between his shoulder blades.

“Feeblemindedness does come with old age, you know,” Jaskier offers. He opens his mouth to continue but is cut off with a grunt as something hard and heavy slams across the base of his skull.

He stumbles to his knees, warm wetness spreading over his collar, and the last thing he sees before everything goes dark is Keir’s smug face looming above him.

“Sweet dreams, Silvertongue.”

* * *

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Thrice-blasted, gods be damned, motherfucking _fuck._

Geralt growls as he climbs into Roach’s saddle, pulling her reins to guide her out of the stable. Once they’re into the open he presses his heels sharply into her flanks and clicks his tongue, spurring her into a canter. People leap out of the way and shout angrily as they barrel through the city. Geralt couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.

Three days. He had left Jaskier alone for _three fucking days_. And he had come back to the innkeep demanding coin because “the bard and his daughter up and left with all their things scattered around the damn room, how am I supposed to run a business if you people treat my inn like a damn wardrobe?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he had demanded. A _daughter?_ He’d been gone for _one day more_ than he’d expected and Jaskier had managed to find some long-lost child of his?

“She’s not his daughter.” A green-eyed woman around Jaskier’s age had approached them then, wringing her hands nervously and looking rather tearful. Geralt had recognized her as the serving maid Jaskier had spoken to when they’d first arrived in Danighan. “Her name is Arienh. She works in the brothel.”

Geralt growls again as he goes over Brighid’s story once more. The damn fool bard had taken it upon himself to save a child from a perverted lord who had once favoured him and, _shockingly_ , it had gone wrong and he’d gotten himself kidnapped.

“I’m going to _murder him_ ,” the witcher snarls, pushing Roach into a gallop as they reach the city limits. He’s not sure if he means Jaskier or Keir. Probably both.

He fucking _knew_ he shouldn’t have taken that contract. Jaskier had been acting strange from the minute they’d set foot in Danighan, even more so than usual. And he’d had that _feeling,_ the nagging one he gets in the pit of his stomach when Jaskier is about to do something so impossibly stupid it makes Geralt wonder how he’s survived all these years.

The thought of his bard being anywhere _near_ that bastard lord sets his teeth in rage. Geralt had disliked the man from the moment he’d met him—he had been smarmy and pompous and, quite frankly, a _dick_. But he hadn’t known then what kind of monster the man is. _Now_ —Brighid’s voice rings in his mind, her descriptions of Keir’s twisted preferences echoing around his head and making his blood boil.

Geralt latches onto the anger, feeding into it. If he lets himself feel the fear trying to root itself deep in his bones, he’ll get sloppy, and it could mean getting Jaskier killed. Fear is a paralytic. Anger is good. Anger leads to action. He lets it consume him until he knows nothing but the all-encompassing red haze clouding his thoughts and his vision.

If _any_ harm has come to Jaskier _or_ the girl, he will tear Keir limb from limb.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wordlessly, Geralt steps forward and wraps the cloak around Jaskier’s shoulders. A moment passes in which Geralt stares at Jaskier’s exposed collarbone and Jaskier waits for Geralt to say something.
> 
> “You don’t want to stay with me anymore,” Geralt says finally. His voice is as blank as his stare. “Because I couldn’t protect you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Mary and Joseph. It's finally fucking finished. I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Been a little depressy as of late.
> 
> I know that the ending seems a little abrupt and I've toyed with the idea of a sixth chapter or epilogue, but I think it's an okay place to stop and I don't think I have the energy for any more unfortunately. I also haven't proofread this chapter as thoroughly as the others because I'm tired as fuck (beta reader? don't know her *laughs hysterically*) and I'm not that great at writing torture/rape scenes which is why Jaskier is always unconscious or dissociating. Tbh I'm much better at writing straight, plotless hurt/comfort lol.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this story. It was a lot of fun =)
> 
> WARNING: Graphic depictions of torture and rape/non-con

Jaskier bites his lip so hard he can taste the blood pooling on his tongue as the lash comes down on his back once again, burning across the gaping wounds already littered there and flaying his skin wide open. He thinks hazily of the months this will take to heal and the scars he’ll carry with him forever. It’s a shame, really—his back had been beautiful, a perfect expanse of unmarred skin and lean, rippling muscle. Geralt had caught him more than a few times admiring himself in the looking glass and always made fun of him for it.

Thinking of Geralt makes his heart ache. He had believed that they might have had a chance, a _real_ chance, at something together—something passionate and pure and perhaps even everlasting.

But now here he is, tied stark-naked to a horse post in Lord Keir’s cellar and leaking blood all over the stone floor while the man whips him within an inch of his consciousness. He doesn’t think that Keir will actually _kill_ _him_ down here—no, Jaskier is all too familiar with Keir’s sick, twisted mind and he knows that the bastard will want to keep him as his plaything for a good long while. The thought makes him shudder dizzily and he slips a little in the slick puddle of blood at his feet. He would honestly rather die than spend any extended period of time trapped in Keir’s gruesome dungeon of a basement.

 _Figures the cunt would have a fucking_ torture chamber _in his cellar,_ Jaskier thinks bitterly. _I’m surprised there aren’t bodies rotting in the corners._

He’s helpless to keep the low, pained noise from escaping him with the next lash. He feels a flare of anger at himself. He _knows_ that that’s what Keir wants, wants him to be loud, wants him to moan and scream and whimper and beg. The sounds of agony are probably the only way the bastard can get off. Jaskier’s been doing a fair job of keeping his vocalizations to a minimum and he can’t break now. He _can’t_.

But white spots are playing across his vision and he loses his footing again and for a moment the only thing keeping him upright is the rope around his wrists and it _hurts_. He blinks back tears.

“You do know that I travel with a witcher, don’t you?” he says, and he’s proud of himself for keeping his voice steady, even if it’s barely more than a mumble. “I travel with a witcher and hold his affections, and you’re lashing me with a horse whip. Oh, dear, you _are_ in trouble, aren’t you?”

Keir laughs and hits him again. “You mean that great surly lout who came to kill my drowners? That monster wouldn’t give his affections to a _queen_ , let alone a pathetic singing whore. You may be pretty, boy, but you’re not worth anyone’s love. He’s not going to save you.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw. “ _Do not_ _call him a monster_ ,” he growls, trying to ignore the flutter of doubt Keir’s words call to flight in his gut.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Geralt will come. No, he’s fairly certain that the witcher will arrive any time now. It’s just that unless he kills Keir—which, to be fair, he very well might—Jaskier can’t leave Arienh to the lord’s mercy.

And even if Geralt _does_ kill Keir, even if he comes to avenge Jaskier swords a-swinging, the bard doesn’t know that the witcher will want him after _this_. Now that Geralt knows what he is—what he’s _done—_ and now that not just his mind but his _body_ bears the marks of his sins—well. Jaskier wouldn’t blame him if he decided to cut ties. There is some truth in Keir calling him a pathetic singing whore, after all.

The echo of the whip hitting the stone floor startles Jaskier. His heart beats faster as he hears Keir circle around him and his breath hitches as the lord comes into view. As much as the lashes had hurt him, he’s more afraid of the sadistic look in Keir’s eyes and his dark smirk that he is of any pain.

The man grabs Jaskier’s jaw harshly, wrenching his head up to bore his gaze into the bard’s eyes.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he says musingly. “Yes, I’ve heard those ridiculous songs you write about him.” He leans in so close that Jaskier can feel his hot, rancid breath rush over his skin. “But no matter the lies you spread, no matter how many people you think you’ve fooled into believing otherwise, that _thing_ is and will _always_ be a _monster_.”

Jaskier’s blood boils. He tries to kick out at Keir, but he’s weak and the man dances easily out of the way. He laughs and jerks Jaskier’s head to the side so that his skull cracks against the wooden post he’s tied to. The bard presses his lips together to fight the nausea as the room spins.

Keir eyes him almost gleefully, tracking the blood rolling down his sides. His smile grows wider. “Oh, my. I am _so_ glad that I’m able to do as I please with you without having to worry about paying for the damages now. I’ve waited years for this, Silvertongue, did you know?”

“I’m sure you have,” Jaskier gasps. “You always were good at wasting your time on meaningless fancies.”

Keir just laughs again. “I’ve missed that smart mouth of yours, too. It made things so much more _interesting_. And you make the most beautiful sounds when you’re in pain.” He takes a step closer and Jaskier can’t stop himself from recoiling. “Now, then, I think it’s high time to find out if you’re as good a fuck as you were all those years ago. Wouldn’t you say so, Silvertongue?” He takes another step. Jaskier swallows hard. “But just so you don’t get any ideas of trying to fight me—” Too quickly for Jaskier to move, Keir reaches out and slams his head against the horse post once more.

Everything goes dark.

The next time Jaskier wakes, his head is pounding viciously in time with his heartbeat and he’s spread wide on a large bed, his wrists and ankles tied securely to the bedposts by four lengths of rope. He nearly groans. He’s so fucking tired of waking up tied to things. _Fuck_.

Everything is blurry for a moment, but when his vision clears somewhat he finds Keir staring down at him hungrily. Jaskier can already see the outline of the man’s cock straining hard through his trousers. He rolls his eyes despite the situation. What a fucking arselicker.

As he takes in his surroundings, Jaskier’s surprised to find that the room is warmly lit and decorated and the bed is actually quite comfortable. This must be Keir’s room, he muses. It seems a bit odd that the man would want to commit his acts of hideous brutality in his own chambers. Jaskier can feel the blood from his back soaking into the cover on the mattress.

Keir moves closer, tugging at the laces on his pants. A cold wave of fear chases Jaskier’s considerations away. It doesn’t matter where they are. What’s about to happen is going to just as horrific here as it would have been in the bastard’s torture chamber.

He had really hoped that Geralt would come _before_ the raping started. He squeezes his eyes closed as Keir sheds his clothes and kneels over him on the bed, but the man grabs his bruised ribs hard, making him gasp. “Ah, ah, ah,” Keir says silkily. “You know the rules, Silvertongue.” Jaskier reluctantly looks back at the lord. He knows that it will be so much worse if he doesn’t.

 _Oh, Melitele_ , he thinks desperately. _Let this be over soon_. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and his breaths begin to get shallow and panicked.

“There’s a good boy,” Keir coos, slicking his cock with an oil that smells strongly of rose. Jaskier has time to think faintly that he’ll never buy another rose-scented soap as long as he lives, and then Keir is shoving his dick unceremoniously inside of him with a loud groan.

Jaskier floats. Things are hazy and unreal, and he feels as though he’s left his body somewhere below him. He can feel distantly the burn of Keir’s cock in his ass, the rawness of his wrecked back against the sheets, the throb of his head and ribs as he jolts with Keir’s thrusts. But it’s too obscure and he can’t focus, and he thanks Melitele for small mercies. Time passes. Minutes, hours, days. Jaskier can’t tell, and he doesn’t care to know anyway. He’s content to stay in this almost-oblivion for the rest of his life if he has to.

From somewhere far away there is the sound of screaming. He’s vaguely aware of Keir tearing out of him and shouting. There’s crashing and the sound of metal on metal and more screaming and more shouting and then the door to Keir’s chambers flies open, banging against the wall so hard that it splinters.

The loud noise brings Jaskier back to himself a bit, but things are still indistinct as he watches Geralt swing his sword, quick and controlled, and then sees Keir crumple to the ground with an agonized scream of his own. The lord clutches frantically at his groin and curls in on himself, sobbing. Blood begins to pool between his legs. Geralt leans down near Keir’s ear and says something too low for Jaskier to hear, his face twisted into the most terrifying snarl Jaskier has ever seen.

The bard shudders and closes his eyes and tries desperately to leave his body again. It doesn’t work. Everything is suddenly too much—it’s too loud and he’s in agony and cold and so, so vulnerable, and Geralt is going to look at him and know he’s damaged goods, just a pathetic singing whore, and he’s going to _leave him_. Geralt is going to leave Jaskier behind because he’s useless and dirty.

“Jaskier. _Fuck—_ Jaskier, look at me.”

Geralt’s voice is close, right near Jaskier’s head. He startles, his eyes snapping open. Geralt is standing at the side of the bed, one hand hovering in the air like he was going to touch the bard but changed his mind halfway. His brow is furrowed in a way that Jaskier doesn’t quite recognize, although he thinks maybe he’s seen that expression on Geralt’s face before. He just can’t remember when.

Gods. Geralt won’t even _touch_ him now. He must think he’s absolutely disgusting. Jaskier wishes he would just _leave_ already, just take Arienh and go—

“ _Arienh_ ,” he gasps, staring wide-eyed at the witcher. “Geralt—Arienh—you have to take her. Please, Geralt, I know you don’t want me anymore but she needs—she’s so _young—_ Geralt, _please_.” Jaskier doesn’t even really know what he’s asking anymore. He feels warm tears coursing down his face.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Don’t want— _Jaskier_ , what—”

“Just take her and go,” the bard manages finally. His heart aches fiercely at the understanding that passes through Geralt’s eyes and then he’s just repeating it over and over. He can’t stop. “Just take her, just take her and go. Just—” A choked sob cuts him off and suddenly he’s crying so hard he can’t get any more words out.

Tears blur his vision. He can just make out Geralt’s tall form beside him—so he knows when the man walks away. It shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t make him cry impossibly harder, but it _does_. He had been unknowingly holding onto the hope that Geralt could love him anyway and now he’s paying the price. He squeezes his eyes shut and gags around the violence of his tears.

“Fuck,” a voice says from by his feet. There are hurried footsteps toward him and then a warm, calloused hand cups his cheek, a thumb brushing at the wetness under his eyes. “Calm down, Jaskier. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Jaskier doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear that it’s just his mind playing tricks on him. What is Geralt doing? Why hasn’t he left yet? The only thing he manages to get past his lips is a breathless, “…want…leave…”

Geralt growls lowly. “I’m going to rip that bastard’s innards out and _feed them to him_ ,” he all but snarls. Jaskier flinches and then hears the witcher take in a slow breath.

“I’m not _leaving_ ,” Geralt says more gently. “I was going to untie you. But you need to breathe, Jaskier, and I need to look at your back.”

Oh. He should have known. Geralt is too kind to up and leave without making sure he’s not going to die of his injuries. The bard tries obediently to steady his breathing. There are no tears left in him, anyway—he feels wrung-out and frail. Fine tremors wrack through him.

It takes a few minutes of cursing but Geralt finally works through all four knots at the bedposts. Jaskier immediately curls in on himself, ignoring the ties of rope still circling his wrists and ankles and the way the tentative scabs over the wounds on his back break and bleed again. He’s so glad to not be _attached_ to anything anymore that it almost hurts.

No matter Jaskier’s feelings about it, Geralt hums disapprovingly at the fresh blood dripping onto the ruined sheets. Jaskier doesn’t see the witcher—when had his eyes closed again?—but he hears him walk around close to him. The hand that was on his face rests very lightly on his shoulder.

“You need to sit up, Jaskier.”

The bard whimpers in protest.

“I know it hurts,” Geralt says. When he doesn’t say anything more, Jaskier blinks and takes a deep breath.

Geralt does most of the work, supporting Jaskier’s weight as he eases himself into a sitting position and then keeping him upright when he gets there. It takes a second for the bard’s vision to stop trying to white out. When it clears, he can see Keir lying pale and limp on the floor near the bed, his hands still curled loosely between his legs. His lower half is entirely surrounded by a dark red pool. Jaskier sees that his toenails are tinged dusky blue.

He wonders if Keir is dead. Probably, he decides, and wonders how he hadn’t noticed the lack of agonized screeching. What did Geralt _do_ to him, anyway? He looks away from the body and only then spies the severed cock and balls on the floor next to it.

Oh.

“I think Keir’s bled out.” The realization is surprisingly numb.

“Pity,” Geralt says flatly. Jaskier considers what the witcher had said about feeding Keir his own innards and thinks that probably it’s not the loss of life that Geralt is mourning, but rather the lack of opportunity to end it more creatively.

For a while they don’t talk. Geralt presses gently at his back and curses. Jaskier flinches a little and thinks that he’s lucky Keir hadn’t had time to do more damage. A couple bruises, some rope burn. The only real problem is that his back is now more open wound than intact skin. Still, they can’t be too far from the border of Danighan. He can find himself a healer while Geralt goes with Arienh. It will be easier, now—with the threat from Keir gone, the witcher won’t have to take her far.

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier says. His voice is monotone and flat, and Geralt’s hands still on his skin. There’s a pause.

“Yes,” Geralt agrees cautiously. “You’ll heal.”

“No, I mean—” Jaskier takes a long, steadying breath. “I mean you can go now. I’ll be fine to get to a healer on my own. Take Arienh and go, back to the last town we stopped in. They needed a serving maid at the inn, she’ll—” Jaskier has to stop and clear his throat. He can’t get rid of the slow burn of sorrow there.

Geralt gets up suddenly from his place on the bed. Before Jaskier can recommence his grieving, however, the witcher begins rummaging through the wardrobe against the wall. When he turns around to face the bard again, he holds a long, heavy travelling cloak and his eyes are unfathomable.

Wordlessly, Geralt steps forward and wraps the cloak around Jaskier’s shoulders. A moment passes in which Geralt stares at Jaskier’s exposed collarbone and Jaskier waits for Geralt to say something.

“You don’t want to stay with me anymore,” Geralt says finally. His voice is as blank as his stare. “Because I couldn’t protect you.”

“What? Geralt, no—I— _what?_ ” Jaskier gapes, appalled. _Damn it_ , now he’s gone and made Geralt feel bad. He’s so fucking useless. “Of course I want to be with you! But I’m…I’m…” Jaskier has never felt this exhausted. “Now you know about me. About what I’ve done. It’s written all over my body. Every time you look at me you’ll be reminded that I’m just a—a pathetic, singing whore.”

Geralt’s eyes flash murderous and he turns away. He moves a step toward Keir’s body on the floor but stops. Jaskier hears him mutter “not worth it” under his breath.

After a few deep breaths, the witcher turns back to face Jaskier. Jaskier honestly doesn’t know what to expect at this point.

“When you look at my scars, do you think that I’m a crazed, ruthless murderer?” Geralt asks bluntly. Jaskier feels a jolt of something almost like offense.

“No! Of course I don’t think—”

“Why not?”

Jaskier stares. It soon becomes apparent that Geralt is actually _serious_. “What the fuck are you on about, Geralt?” he asks incredulously.

The witcher doesn’t back down. “ _Why not?_ ”

“Because—well, because—” Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Because I love you!” Jaskier finally blurts. He’s so shocked at himself that a wave of dizziness washes over him.

For a second Geralt looks just as surprised as Jaskier feels. But then his eyes soften and he moves toward the bard, raising a hand to brush the sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“I’m not leaving you, Jaskier. I’ll take you to a healer and then we’ll get the girl to Tyren. Do you think you have the strength to hold on if I carry you on my back?”

Jaskier nods silently and Geralt bends his knees for him to climb on, maneuvering so that the cloak is tucked snugly around the bard, shielding him from the chill and creating a barrier between his naked skin and Geralt’s leathers.

“The girl is just in the room down the hall,” the witcher says as they begin walking. “I could smell her, but I wanted to get to you first. Roach can carry the three of us as far as the inn without problem.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. He’s still reeling from that fact that he’s just declared his love for the witcher in finality. His pronouncement hadn’t been returned, but that’s all right—Jaskier doesn’t know if Geralt’s current affections toward him are truly love, and he doubts the other man knows either. But Geralt still _wants_ him, and, for now, that’s enough.

Geralt must Jaskier’s silence the wrong way, because he says, “You’re not pathetic, Jaskier. And you’re not a whore. Your past doesn’t define you. You’re a bard.” Geralt hesitates, his steps faltering the slightest bit. “My bard.”

Jaskier smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with this and for all of your kudos and kind comments. It really means so much to me. I think this is the first time I've ever completed a chaptered story, and I'm so grateful for your guys' help in getting to the end.
> 
> Cheers!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It won’t be easy. He has carried this guilt with him for years, carefully hidden away under a well-crafted mask of bravado. He hadn’t expected to be forced to face it—maybe not ever. 
> 
> But what Geralt had said about honour and mourning comforts him, and he knows that the witcher won’t let him wallow in guilt and self-loathing. Geralt will help Jaskier heal his heart, just as he’s helped him heal his body. Because he loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!!! Thought you'd heard the last of this one, didn't ya? Lol
> 
> It just didn't feel quite right leaving things the way they were with my boys. So here's a short epilogue of some well-needed comfort and fluff. Geralt is definitely OOC here but we love him for it.
> 
> WARNING: Graphic depictions of rape/non-con, brief mentions of self-harm, and one very vague allusion to child abuse

_Jaskier’s whole body hurts. His back is dripping blood onto the cold stone floor as it grates against his open wounds. Keir pounds into him mercilessly, each thrust sending a searing stab of pain through his insides._

_“Geralt,” he sobs, pressing a forearm across his eyes. He digs at the stone with his other hand, scraping the tips of his fingers and breaking his nails._

_“You may be pretty, boy, but you’re not worth anyone’s love,” Keir grunts. He jerks Jaskier’s arm away from his face. “He’s not going to save you.”_

_“No, no, he’ll come for me. Geralt—Geralt_ please _…”_

_Suddenly Keir is gone and the witcher is looming over him, his features pinched in anger. Jaskier expects to feel relieved, but instead a tendril of dread is beginning to curl in his stomach. He reaches out and baulks when the witcher recoils._

_“Whore,” Geralt spits, amber eyes like fire. “You’re dirty, Jaskier, and now everyone knows it. I would never have stayed with you if I had known what you were. Just a pathetic, singing_ whore _.”_

Jaskier jolts awake with Geralt’s name on his lips and tears in his eyes. Beside him, the witcher grumbles a bit and turns over to face away from the bard before settling again. It shouldn’t feel like a rejection—Geralt is asleep, Jaskier _knows_ that—but it does. He clasps a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob and moves as quietly as he can out of the bed.

It’s been a few weeks since they’d taken Arienh back to Tyren. When they’d found her in a room just down the hall from the one Geralt had rescued Jaskier from, the bard had felt weak with relief upon seeing her unharmed. Jaskier had actually _heard_ Geralt’s jaw clench shut as the witcher took in the bruises decorating the girl’s arms and neck—not-quite-healed evidence of past abuse at the hands of the lord Geralt had just dismembered. Jaskier heard him mutter something that sounded like “never been so glad to kill something in my life.”

Arienh had burst into tears at the sight of the battered bard, apologizing over and over again and insisting that it should have been her until Jaskier told her in no uncertain terms that he would have died before he let that bastard hurt her again. He hadn’t missed the way Geralt’s face had tightened minutely at the proclamation.

Geralt had left Jaskier with the healer while he took Arienh back to the other town, and when he returned he gave the bard a kiss on the cheek that he said was from the girl. And then he’d given Jaskier a chaste kiss on the lips that he said, with the slightest hint of a blush, was from him.

Since then they’ve been taking it easy. They go from town to town every few days because staying in one place for too long makes Geralt uneasy, but the witcher says he doesn’t want to risk hindering Jaskier’s healing by moving too much. Every now and then Geralt takes an easy hunt for some coin, and now that Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about tearing any stitches he’s started performing again.

His back has healed nicely but the scars are horrific—a stark reminder of his dirtiness and lack of worth. Every time he sees them he can’t help but flinch. He’s taken to avoiding mirrors.

Since he doesn’t need help cleaning and dressing the wounds anymore he won’t let Geralt anywhere _near_ his back. Won’t let him touch it. Won’t even let him look at it. The witcher had been frustrated at first, but had accepted Jaskier’s half-lie that the scars were still tender, and it’s easy enough to keep that part of him covered.

Now, in the pale light of the near-full moon, Jaskier stares at his ruined back in the looking glass and weeps. It’s ugly. _Hideous._ Ropes of raised skin crisscrossing each other in harsh ridges, angry and red. They’ll fade and flatten somewhat, he knows, but they’ll never go away. He’ll be marked with the evidence of his failures for the rest of his life. He clenches his eyes shut and reaches an arm awkwardly behind him, dragging his nails harshly over the scars. He wants to tear them up, wants to dig them out. At least self-inflicted wounds won’t scream the story of his shameful past so loudly.

“Jaskier, stop.” Geralt’s low voice startles the bard’s eyes open. The wither’s brow furrows as he catches Jaskier’s hand in his own and pulls him around to face him.

Jaskier looks down, ashamed, but Geralt is having none of that. He cups Jaskier’s chin in his hand and gently tilts his head up to search his eyes, brushing at the tears on the bard’s cheek with his thumb. After a minute he sighs and lets go. Jaskier expects to be led back to bed and have that be the end of it, but instead he lets out a squeak of surprise as Geralt swiftly pulls his shirt over his head and then pushes him onto the mattress belly-first.

“Geralt, what—” Jaskier tries to squirm over onto his back, tries to hide his scars, but Geralt presses his shoulders down. Even though the witcher’s hands are gentle, Jaskier is certain that he’s not going anywhere.

“I knew it was more than tenderness,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier feels the bed dip as the witcher straddles his hips. The first touch of Geralt’s hands on his skin makes him shudder. Featherlight, Geralt traces a spot low on the side of his back—where he’d scratched himself earlier. The witcher sighs again. “If I’d thought you were going to hurt yourself we would have had this conversation sooner.”

“I didn’t mean—I just—” Jaskier doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how to explain. It feels ridiculous, this whole thing.

Geralt hums, brushing his fingertips upward, stroking over the hypersensitive ridges of scar tissue. Another shiver races through the bard.

“I’m no stranger to scars, Jaskier,” Geralt says above him. “They’re unavoidable, given my job. But no matter how much I’ve come to expect them, they’re not always easy to make peace with.”

The feeling of Geralt’s hands caressing over his sides forces the tension out of his shoulders with a long, slow exhale. He closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in Geralt’s voice and touch.

“Sometimes I’ll look at a scar and remember a life I wasn’t fast enough to save,” the witcher continues softly. He shifts, and Jaskier feels the gentle press of his lips against his scarred shoulder. Geralt kisses across Jaskier’s shoulder blades and then says, “When you see your back, you think of all the awful things you let people do to you when you were younger. You think of all the children who came after you and found themselves at the mercy of that monster.”

A sob swells in Jaskier’s throat. Geralt is quiet as he cries, running a hand gently through his hair, thumb stroking broad circles behind his ear. Once the bard’s tears have quieted a bit, the witcher moves downward and trails his lips over the thicker scars near his waist.

“A wise man once told me to honour the dead rather than mourn them,” Geralt murmurs. “So when I remember the lives lost to the monsters responsible for my scars, I also remember the lives I saved when I killed them.”

For a few long moments it’s quiet again. Geralt kisses Jaskier’s shame while the bard trembles beneath him.

Finally, Geralt rolls Jaskier and shifts so that they’re lying next to each other, face-to-face. The witcher’s eyes are soft as they hold Jaskier’s.

“It’s okay to remember the children forced to endure Keir’s brutality and be sad,” Geralt says, caressing away the fresh trickle of tears. “But I want you to remember all the children who are now free of him, because of _you_ , as well. And if you even _think_ of blaming yourself for that fucker’s atrocities, bard, I’ll feed Roach your stash of honey-mints.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh despite himself, sliding a hand up to Geralt’s and twining their fingers together. His smile drops as quickly as it had come, though.

“I’ve done such shameful, dirty things,” he whispers, closing his eyes against the new sting of tears. He doesn’t want to cry anymore.

There’s a pause long enough that Jaskier opens his eyes again, worried that he’s somehow made Geralt angry. Or reminded him of all the reasons he shouldn’t stay.

The witcher is gazing at him with a shadowed expression, mouth twisted into a frown. Before Jaskier can apologize for—what? He’s not sure. Existing, or something equally ridiculous—Geralt speaks.

“We do what we have to do to survive,” he murmurs. “I hear the things you say to your father in your dreams, Jaskier. If you hadn’t left Kerack—” The witcher cuts himself off, jaw clenching. After a steadying breath, he continues. “Terrible things were done, yes. Terrible things were done to an innocent child with nowhere else to turn. If you had been older, wiser, maybe you would have realized that working in the brothel wasn’t the only option. But you weren’t.”

“Keir said I’m not worth anyone’s love,” Jaskier says, searching Geralt’s face almost pleadingly. And then, more quietly, “He said you weren’t going to save me.”

He sees the witcher’s amber eyes light with rage for a split second before they close. For a moment it’s quiet except for the sound of Geralt’s deep, carefully controlled breathing. Finally, Geralt cups the back of Jaskier’s head and moves to press a fierce, lingering kiss to his brow.

“I will _always_ save you,” he says firmly. “And Jaskier, I have never met a man more deserving of love than you are. I…” The witcher hesitates, but then his eyes flash determinedly. “I love you, Jaskier.”

Geralt tucks an arm around him and pulls him close, mindful of the still-tender skin on his back. A smile breaks across Jaskier’s face as he tucks it into the witcher’s shoulder. He feels warm all the way down to his toes.

It won’t be easy. He has carried this guilt with him for years, carefully hidden away under a well-crafted mask of bravado. He hadn’t expected to be forced to face it—maybe not ever.

But what Geralt had said about honour and mourning comforts him, and he knows that the witcher won’t let him wallow in guilt and self-loathing. Geralt will help Jaskier heal his heart, just as he’s helped him heal his body. Because he loves him.

Jaskier burrows closer to Geralt’s chest, grinning when the witcher holds him more tightly. Geralt _loves_ him.

No, it won’t be easy. But nothing good is ever easy. They have years and the whole world ahead of them, Jaskier thinks—and maybe that’s naively optimistic, but he doesn’t care.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed your surprise! Cheers =)


End file.
